Two People
by DySolo
Summary: Spencer reflects on the two most important people in a person's life, the mother and the wife, while trying to find the latter. NOT UPDATED FREQUENTLY.
1. Chapter 1

There's two people in this world that you remember the most: Your mother and the woman you marry. One makes you the man you are and the other loves you for it. My mother made me someone unique. My father helped, of course. There is no such living human without the chromosomes a father gives, but I am all of my mother. From her long slender fingers to her brain, I am Diana Reid's son. And of, that I am very proud. (and sometimes very scared.)

For the first years of my life, I was raised by two parents and it is not a time I recall very well. Due to my emotional stability or reasons I do not quite understand, my first eight years are a blur. I know my father tried to make me normal - to be his son and each time, I failed miserably. I was not a boy's boy. I did not like trucks or baseball. I did not like anything he liked.

For this alone, I blamed myself for years after his disappearance. Maybe if I were more like him, he could have stayed, but I was not. I was her in the male form, in a child.

I craved her knowledge. I loved how she would scoop me up into her world and read to me for days. I saw the things she saw and in it, I felt home. I soon began to be able to read faster than even she could, reading things that she'd only hope to. Different languages and dead forms. I craved it all. I craved knowledge that she didn't have and in return, I excelled faster than my peers. I was a child prodigy, but only because of her. Her genes and her passion. Her intensity.

When my father left, we spent days in a fog. I only left her bed to eat when I grew tired and to relieve myself. I did not want her to think that I was leaving her as well. I knew what that would feel like. I didn't want to leave her either. We were very much the same. We always here and for this, I took care of her as I took care of myself. She was my mother. She was me.

I grew into a man. I matured quickly. and at 18, I realized that there was nothing more that I could do. That as her son, I had to help her when she could not help herself. She was ill and I was not. I had to live my life in a way she would be proud. I joined the FBI a few years latter. I helped people a living. My lucid mother would be proud; the paranoid woman who lived in her would kill me. When I told her, she called me a traitor, that she could no longer see me. I have yet to visit her again.

My mentor has set me up on a date. He gave me tickets to a football game, in return to ask a friend. A beautiful woman. Blonde hair, blue eyes, very intelligent. This is where the other woman I mentioned comes in. I am not saying that I will marry this woman, don't get me wrong. I am not a foolish man, I know that one date means nothing, but I have read every word of Shakespeare and Austen and somewhere in me, I think must lie a romantic.

My mother used to tell me that when you're ready, the woman of your future will walk into your life. This woman walked in years ago and from the moment I saw there, there was something inside of me spark. She reminds me somewhat of my mother and in a way, that terrifies me and sets me as ease. It's an intense paradox that only furthers my fascination. She's warm and loving. She's passionate in her work. She spends each day, looking for the answers and worries about her choices during the night. She's dedicated and yet soft. She intrigues me greatly.

She calls me Spence. The only one on the team to do so. The only one in this life. And it's strange how it makes me feel. It's only meant to be amicable thing. A nickname among friends. I am not the only she has nicknamed in our group, and yet it makes me feel different still. I am not Doctor Reid to her, but just Spence. I am not the 24 year old certified genius, but just a man. Just a man that she agreed to go to a football game with. Just a man she might find interesting. Or so I hope.

I wonder if I should tell her about anything or everything. I wonder if this is even a good idea at all to go and yet, I can't help but want to do it anyway. Is that foolish? Is it just an effect of emotion? I don't know and in all honestly, it doesn't phase me as much as it should.

I hope to look back on this and think that there was a purpose to writing it. Maybe, when I do, I will know more than just the love of a mother. Maybe I will know the love of the other. For when you look back, what does anyone really see that have succeeded at this life?

Two people and I already know one.


	2. Chapter 2

I mentioned before that there are two people in this world you remember most: your mother and the woman you marry. Since then, I have found myself mistaken. I have found another person that matters just as much. And that person is your best friend. Mine, just happens to be a woman, as well.

I have never really belonged with men, so it makes sense that this person would be a woman. I already mentioned that my father left at a young age and that my intelligence kept me from succeeding socially. Boys in high school stuffed me into lockers and threw punches. Why would I want to befriend that? The girls weren't much better, either, I suppose, but as I grew up, they became softer, more in tuned with emotions and guilt, where the men still favored violence. I went to college at the age of 13. I was not a threat to anyone, and yet, they still tortured me. Invited me to parties to embarrass me. And let me add, that this was at CalTech, not known for their party scene, but for their exceedingly smart students - most which would have been bullied at their high schools, now they bullied me. I assume that they were just trying to gain the power that was taken from them. It's a fact that those bullied are more likely to commit violence later in life. Most of our unsubs have some type of abuse in their past. Even my boss has said that the abused either become abusers or help those who are abused. I guess I'm in the latter.

But I digress, I was supposed to be speaking about my best friend. She is the woman I mentioned before. The beautiful blonde with the sparking eyes. Romance was not in our future and at the time, I admit I was slightly distraught about this, but time has passed, and I see it with clearer eyes. And yes, she still calls me Spence.

I realize that this person would be one of the most important days after the most traumatic event of my life. I lay in a hospital even as I write this, craving things I can not have, so instead I write. The thing I crave? I can not speak of. Or maybe I can, yet refuse. I don't want to think of the bad things that have happened. They fog me with anxiety and fear that I can not control. It makes me feel like I think my mother must. So, I move on, to talk about this wonderful woman.

I woke up to see her, sitting next to me. A nurse later informed me she never left. That guests came and went, but the blonde never left. And when she woke to see my eyes open, my heart almost broke as tears came from her eyes. Her hand gripped at mine, and I did not pull away. We sat there for hours, both apologetic, both guilty, both needing the other in a way that no one but the two of us would understand. But that is not what caused the realization. The fact that still, as I write this, she naps in the cot beside me shocks me into the thoughts. If a nickname made me feel amazing and strange, her presence after days takes my breath away - not a small feat for someone who knows as much as I. She has kept me company, helped me with the smallest tasks I can't do by myself at the moment, and held me when my nightmares get the best of me.

She reminds me of what my mother probably should have been. She is kind and wonderful and giving, warm and patient. She listens and does not push. She's the shelter in a storm that I don't know will ever end.

Don't get me wrong. I am not selfish, either. I know that I am not the only one who was in a traumatic experience. I am trying to do the best I can to help her with her fears as well. When she has nightmares (which she does, not as often as mine. She slept straight through last night), I move to the side to let her sleep close, to keep her safe. So in a way, I guess explaining her as a mother-figure would be wrong. I guess, what it really is, what I described her as before: my best friend.

It's so strange, saying it though. I want to label it as something else. I've never a "best friend", one you can share all your secrets and pains with. I've never had anyone want to get that close. I am 25 years old and have never experienced this before. Is that my fault or due to the wickedness of my childhood? I could have tried harder, I assume and yet, I'm glad I didn't. This feeling is needed now.

I wish we could stay in here forever, but I am being released in a few hours. She will go home and I, as well. The safety of the hospital will be gone and the darkness will seep back in. Maybe because of this, I will be able to beat it. And if not, she is only a call away, correct? The mere thought makes me feel slightly better.


End file.
